


Over My (Not Quite) Dead Body

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison-mentioned, Argents-mentioned, Coma Stiles, Have fun storming the castle kids, Kate Argent Warning, Kate-mentioned, M/M, No Scott--sorry, Not-Dead Stiles, Nurse Laura, Only Mostly-Dead Stiles, Realtor Derek, pre-Sterek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 21:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Derek has been trying to sell this house for three months. It's a gorgeous house with plenty of space for a growing family. There's only one problem: it's already occupied. By a ghost. Named Stiles of all things.





	Over My (Not Quite) Dead Body

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](http://thecw4kids.tumblr.com/post/152610530918/ghost-in-the-house-get-out-i-will-take-you-real).
> 
> Full warnings in the end notes. Not marked for story spoilers.
> 
> Let me know if I missed something in the tags.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable.

~ * ~

Derek sighs as he closes his car door gently. He glares up at the house. It’s impressive. A three story mansion with three and a half baths, six bedrooms, two living rooms, _and_ a dining room.

But, no matter how many people he shows it to, he can’t get a single one to buy.

It’s a cheap house for the location and square footage. It’s a really good steal.

But.

But, there is something wrong with the house.

Derek sighs again and heads up the walk, recently repaved after The Halloween Incident.

He unlocks the door with a key on a lanyard. His sister, Laura makes fun of him for being such a ‘fuddy-duddy’ but she’s forever losing her keys while his are safe around his neck.

He steps into the foyer and flicks on the overhead light. The room is chilled even compared to the cool January weather outside. He shrugs, wishing he had thought to bring his jacket. He always forgets it. If only he could hang it on a lanyard around his neck like his keys.

He marches purposefully toward the kitchen. He tells himself it’s to make sure the appliances still work, but really it’s to leave behind the growing presence of something behind him.

It’s a game they play.

He doesn’t get far. In the doorway, an arm wraps around his stomach, sinking into it, and cold lips hover over his ear.

A voice like ice water cascades, the words _“I will end you,”_ following like the shivers down his spine.

“Relax, you idiot,” he says, trying to hide his fondness with exasperation. “It’s just me.”

Immediately, the cold presence disappears, and a somewhat opaque heathen of a semi-grown man steps around him, heading for the marble counters. Derek would yell at him, but it’s not like his butt can do any damage to them anyway.

“Hey,” the presence says, coughing a bit to clear out the rest of the cold voice. “How’s it going?”

“How do you think?” Derek snaps. He hasn’t been able to sell this house for nearly three months because every time he leaves the room this _child_ pops up and scares the crap out of the potential buyers.

Laura laughed at him the first time he mentioned the specter. She still laughs if he complains to her too much.

“So, any new interesting people in your life?” the ghost asks, a mischievous lilt to his tone.

“No,” Derek mutters. His boss, an apoplectic man by the name of Finstock has banned Derek from actually showing this listing unless specifically asked to. Too many negative reviews.

He hasn’t had anyone try in nearly a month. It’s making him miserable. The apparition must sense this because he jumps down from the countertop and slings an arm through Derek’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a ridiculous accent, “be happy.”

Derek tries to shrug him off, but it doesn’t work. And it’s starting to feel cold again. “I’d be able to stop worrying if I could sell this house!” he yells.

The ghost steps back, looking more like a man than a delinquent now. “I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely. “It’s just, this is my home, man. You can’t seriously let them take it out from under me.”

Derek can sympathize. He had to (read: Finstock made him) sell the plot of land where his own childhood home used to stand. He and the ghost have been having more conversations like this one, ever since Derek stumbled on him in the bath, pretending to shower while the potential buyers left rubber on the sidewalk speeding away.

“So, what have you been up to?” he asks while the ghost drifts back to the counter and parks his incorporeal ass on the expensive surface.

“Oh, you know, haunting this place, wondering if you were ever going to show your grumpy face again. Remembering who I am.”

Derek double-takes at that. “You are?” he asks, not sure if he is incredulous or happy. Probably both.

Now it’s the ghost’s turn to shrug. “Yeah, I mean, you introduced yourself to me ages ago. I wanted to do the same. By the way, my name is Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Derek tests the name on his tongue, liking the way it sits sweet, curls the end of it, and fades into the room as if it belongs here. “It fits,” he says, blinking at the bright smile that lights up the ghost’s face.

“Thanks,” he says. “I chose it myself.” His face freezes into confusion and he repeats his words again.

“Okay…?”

Derek is unprepared for the way the ghost launches himself at him, wrapping arms that are only slightly chilly around him and squeezing tight while he keeps saying, “I chose it myself!”

And then Derek realizes the ghost—Stiles—is actually hugging him.

“Dude,” he says, “you’re touching me.”

Immediately, Stiles pulls back. “Shit, sorry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean to do that. Wait, did you just say ‘dude’?”

“Huh?” Derek thinks back and blushes when he realizes that he did indeed say that word. Damn it. He’d tried not to let Stiles hear him say it. Mostly because Stiles always called him that already. “I also said you were touching me,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, and I said sorry,” Stiles says.

“No.” Derek shakes his head. _“You were touching me.”_

“So?”

“As in, your hand was on my back instead of in it.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide and his mouth opens. He closes it with a click. “I touched you?” he says. “ _I_ touched _you_. I _touched_ you. _I touched you!”_

He touches Derek again when he hugs him again. They both laugh.

“Wait, does this mean that I’m going to move on?” Stiles pulls back, looking sad. “But, I’ll miss you, grumpy face Derek.”

“And I’ll miss you,” Derek admits. “But, I don’t think you’re in danger of moving on quite yet. You’re still a little cold and you’re actually getting less see-through.”

Stiles stares down at his hand, laying it over Derek’s arm to compare. Derek can still see the outline and the color of his arm through Stiles’ fingers, but it is getting easier to see where Stiles begins and ends.

“Nice,” Stiles says, a little melancholy, like he doesn’t believe that he won’t disappear when Derek goes home. In fact, Derek isn’t sure he doesn’t believe that either.

“So,” Derek says, awkwardly scratching the back of his head with his free hand. “I just stopped by to check on things, but I think it’s okay. I’ve got to go. I’ll be back later this week?”

“Tomorrow?” Stiles asks hopefully. “Tomorrow is later this week, right?”

Derek smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It is. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then, despite how hard it is, he goes back to the foyer, shuts off the light, and locks the front door.

He sits in his car for nearly ten minutes, watching the windows for Stiles because the ghost likes to see him off. Stiles never shows and Derek finally gives up.

He cranks the key in the ignition and starts driving back to the apartment he shares with Laura.

He half hopes she won’t be off-shift yet so he can wallow in peace. What if Stiles really does disappear while Derek is gone? What if he never gets to truly say goodbye?

The climb up the stairs to his door is done on autopilot, and Derek can’t even recall the whole drive home. He’s lucky it’s during a slow time of day with no one around to endanger.

Laura’s laptop is on the coffee table, and Derek boots it up, grabbing a glass of water and an apple while he waits for it to cycle through to the start-up screen. Then, once he’s logged on—using their first pet as a password is Laura’s mistake—he opens a browser and types in “Stiles” and “Beacon Hills” and taps the enter key.

The results are almost instantaneous.

_Stiles Stilinski, Son of Sheriff, Injured in Accident_ , the first link proclaims. Derek clicks on it and the _Beacon Reporter_ loads.

The string of letters denoting Stiles’ first name make almost no sense phonetically, and Derek substitutes ‘Stiles’ every time the author deigns to type the gobbledygook. The accident was Stiles falling off the roof of his house, the house that Derek has been trying to sell.

The article is five months old and it doesn’t say conclusively whether Stiles is dead or not, which leaves Derek a bit confused. How can a person be a ghost if they are still alive, he wonders.

So engrossed in his research is he that he fails to hear Laura come stomping into the apartment.

“What the fuck are you doing on my laptop!” she screeches right in his ear.

Derek jumps and flails and ends up smacking Laura in the face.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry!” he says, flailing some more until he can fumble the box of tissues to her. She glares at him, unimpressed, as she pulls out a few and wads them against her nose. He winces at the blood he can see seeping from one nostril.

“I repeat,” she says, coldly, slightly muffled, “what are you doing on my laptop?”

Derek feels hard pressed not to laugh hysterically. He manages to bite his lips long enough for the urge to subside, and for Laura’s stink-eye to get stronger.

“I was just looking up my ghost.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Derek? Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he concedes, “considering I don’t even know if he’s really alive or not.”

“Of course I’m right,” Laura says, smugly. “Now, what exactly am I right about?” She shoves Derek away from the laptop, and he lets her. “‘Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski falls off roof. In coma,’” Laura reads. “Mieczyslaw?” She taps her chin with her bloody tissue. “I have a patient with that name.”

“So, Stiles is in a coma, not dead,” Derek confirms. Laura smacks his arm.

“Can’t tell you, confidentiality clause.”

“Doesn’t matter. I need to go.” He stands up, patting Laura’s head. “Thanks, sis.”

It only takes him fifteen minutes to make the nearly half an hour drive. He slams through the door, barely taking the time to unlock it. Almost immediately, Stiles materializes in front of him.

“I know who you are and where you are,” Derek bursts out, chest heaving as he gasps for air.

Stiles smiles, amused. “And this couldn’t wait for tomorrow?”

“You’ve been in a coma for five months,” Derek says, a little calmer. “No, it couldn’t wait.”

“Well, then, where am I? Can you take me to myself?”

“That depends,” Derek responds. “Can you ride in a car yet?”

Stiles jumps at Derek, and he swears he hears a thump when his feet smack onto the floor. “I don’t know. Let’s try. Race you!”

Stiles swerves around Derek and leaps out of the front door. Derek follows more sedately to make sure he remembers to lock the door behind them.

Stiles can indeed sit in a car, and Derek eyeballs him until he sheepishly buckles his seatbelt.

“’snot like it’ll hurt me if you crash,” he says, almost petulantly. Derek snorts.

“You’re almost tangible. Pretty sure the red light cameras can see you too. I don’t want a ticket just because you think you won’t be hurt.”

Stiles acquiesces with a nod, and then he plasters his face to the window and stares at downtown Beacon Hills as they pass. He points at different things, saying, “That wasn’t there. Why are Mrs. Henderson’s petunias gone? Whoa! _That’s_ new!”

“A lot can change in five months,” Derek murmurs. A lot did change. Derek and Laura moved back to town and Derek got a job with Finstock Reality (“Pretty sure it’s supposed to be Realty, boss.” “Nonsense, My grandmother named this business. Are you going to argue with my dead grandmother? No? Then get back out there and sell some realities!”).

“When did they build the addition to the hospital?” Stiles asks, wonder in his voice. Derek stares at him blankly.

“They built it a year ago,” he says. “Do you not remember it—or have you been in a coma longer than five months?”

Stiles grins at him. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Mrs. Henderson has been dead for nearly seven years. It’s about time someone put those petunias out of their misery. Although, the fountain _is_ new.”

Derek slaps his hand against the back of Stiles’ head, shuddering when it rebounds off. Stiles is still cold, but at least Derek can touch him.

“Let’s go meet my body!” Stiles declares, unbuckling and throwing open his door. Derek again follows slower, making sure the car’s doors are locked and double locked.

“Would I be in long term care or in ICU?” Stiles asks Derek.

“Laura works in the long care term ward,” Derek answers, out of the side of his mouth, just in case anyone’s listening in but can’t see or hear Stiles. “She’s talked about you a lot. Not by name,” he adds hastily to Stiles’ incredulous glare. “Long term care?” he offers apologetically.

“Lead the way.”

The long term care facility is located on the first floor but is only accessible through a hallway that requires a pass code. Luckily, a nurse lets Derek in, and he holds the door long enough for Stiles to squeeze past him. His arm, when it brushes over Derek’s back is cool to the touch, but it’s much warmer than he’s used to Stiles being.

“Think we’re getting closer?” he whispers, as they pass door after door. He reads the names stuck on the wall as they move. Twelve doors down, they come to Mieczyslaw Stilinski’s room.

“Here you are,” Derek whispers at Stiles.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Stiles retorts. “I can read, you know.”

Inside the room is bland. The walls are off-white interspersed with darker splotches as if pictures have been removed. There is a table by the mobile bed where a green glass vase of wilted flowers stands like a lone sentry. An empty chair has been dragged up to the bed, an open newspaper spread across the seat.

In the bed, Derek recoils from seeing Stiles lying there helpless, a tube down his throat, machines and wires hooked up to his frail body. He glances at the Stiles next to him. Stiles looks completely solid now, and he reaches out a hand to trace down his own face.

As soon as he touches the skin, light bursts from his fingers, throwing the room into sharp relief. Derek shields his eyes, squinting into the sudden influx of energy.

He can feel the heat radiating from Ghost-Stiles while Coma-Stiles just lies there.

“Hang on,” Stiles grunts, as if Derek said anything. “I’m going to try to meld with my body. Make sure no one interrupts me.”

Derek grabs his shoulder. “Are you sure it’s safe to do this?” he asks.

“What else can I do?” Stiles says. “I can’t pull back.” He demonstrates this by tugging at the hand on his face. It pulls away, but it looks like it’s taking the skin with it, the face of Coma-Stiles distorting as he tugs.

“Stop, stop,” Derek says, frightened. “No, you’re right, you should totally meld with yourself. It’ll probably work out. Hey, if it doesn’t you want to grab something to eat with me?”

“What?” Stiles stutters. He glances back at Derek. “You want to go out with me? I thought I annoyed you?”

Derek shakes his head. “I like you,” he says gruffly. “I like you a lot. I don’t like anyone else as much as I like you. Not even my sister. You understand me.” He doesn’t say, “You saved me,” but he knows Stiles hears it all the same. Derek blinks back tears. What if this doesn’t work? He’s going to lose Stiles forever. “So, please,” he begs, “if it works and you wake up and you remember me, please, just go out with me?”

Stiles grabs him with his free hand, tilting his head up. “Yes,” he says before he presses his lips to Derek’s. They’re warm, soft, perfect. The kiss ends before it really begins, and then Stiles steps forward, throwing himself over his body. The light amplifies again until even squeezing his eyes shut and covering them with his hands doesn’t block it from blinding Derek.

When the light finally fades, he’s standing alone in Stiles’ room, staring down at his motionless body.

It didn’t work. He didn’t wake up.

“Who the hell are you?” someone demands, and Derek spins around to face a disgruntled older man brandishing a slice of toast like a weapon.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. He can’t stop the tears now. “It was supposed to work. I’m so sorry. I’ll go now.” He brushes past the man, dodging his arm. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, all but running for the exit.

Out in his car, Derek wipes at his eyes again and again. He doesn’t think he can safely drive home, so he climbs out again and calls Laura.

Surprisingly, she comes to get him without lecturing him. One look at him, and she draws him into a hug.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, and he shakes his head, choking back a sob.

“It won’t be,” he says, thickly.

Derek is unused to Laura being so nice to him, and he keeps waiting for her to tire of the snot he’s dribbling on her shoulder as he cries.

“It’s okay,” she repeats firmly, patting at his back. “You will learn to carry on.”

She pauses to pull back and examine him with a critical eye. “Why are you so upset anyway?” she demands. “I mean, it’s not like you really knew him.”

“We’ve talked for months,” Derek says. He wipes at his face, sighing. Laura’s probably right: he’s being too emotional. Stiles is only just the one person Derek thinks he might be in love with. No big deal.

He sighs again. “Did I ever tell you how he saved me?” he asks. Laura shakes her head. “On Halloween, when the Argents were in town—” The Argents run the largest distributor of domestic firearms this side of the Mississippi. They are nothing short of royalty by celebrity status “—they were interested in the listing I’ve been trying to sell for the last few months.”

“Obviously, you haven’t sold it,” Laura says.

“Obviously.” Derek glares down at the ground,. He has never told anyone this story. And he has been thankful that Stiles has never mentioned it.

“Halloween night, Kate Argent booked a showing for the house, and Finstock made me go out to unlock the doors and answer any questions she had.

“She’d brought her niece with her to, I don’t know, put me at ease, I guess. Well, when her niece was busy sliding down the banister, Kate cornered me in the kitchen.”

He swallows hard, peeking at Laura to gauge her reaction.

“She put her hand down my pants and groped me.” Laura’s face stays worryingly blank. “I tried to fight her off, but she threatened to call Allison into the room and then say I was molesting her niece.”

Laura starts shaking, face turning white, but still she doesn’t say anything.

“I-I just let her. It wasn’t like she was hurting me,” he says to his feet. “But, right when she was taunting me, because I couldn’t stay hard in her grip, the toaster smashed onto the floor. That was the first time I met Stiles.”

“Your ghost, Stiles,” Laura says. “So what are you doing at the hospital?”

“Stiles is your patient. Meechislav—or however you say it.”

“Your ghost is a patient here?” Laura looks dubiously at the windows behind them. “Your ghost is my patient? The one they’re talking about taking off life support because his brainwaves suggest he’s essentially brain dead?”

Derek glares at her. “You never mentioned that,” he says.

“I wasn’t supposed to,” Laura replies. “Breach of confidentiality.”

“I think I can drive now,” Derek says coldly. Ostensibly, he knows it isn’t Laura’s fault that the hospital is going to kill Stiles, but she’s listened to him talk about ‘his ghost’ for three months now. She could have mentioned something about how her favorite patient was scheduled to die soon! He might have put the pieces together in time.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Laura says, just as icily. “You’re in no state to be operating a motor vehicle.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m speaking to you as someone who works in the health industry. Do not get behind the wheel. I will drive you home, you will eat whatever comfort food I give you, and then you will write a letter to the fucking pope explaining how you fell in gay-love with a ghost.”

“He’s not actually a ghost,” Derek mumbles, not bothering to deny the gay-love thing. He’s positive she’s right anyway. He wants to kiss Stiles again. He doesn’t want to find another article online about how Stiles died after the machines keeping him alive were unplugged. “He’s in a coma. I don’t know how he was able to communicate with me.”

“Come on.” Laura grabs Derek’s arm and tugs him to her car, gently. “Let’s go home.

Derek lets her lead him to her car. He glances back as they pull away, and he sees the man from Stiles’ room staring down at them from an uncovered window. Derek turns away.

~ * ~

Two months later, Derek is sitting at his desk. He has a memo in one hand from Finstock about pulling Stiles’ house from the listings and a mug of cold coffee in the other. His cell phone chirps and he jerks, spilling liquid over his desk.

“Shit!” He mops at the puddle with a handful of tissues Greenberg passes him. He peeks at Finstock’s office, happy to see that the door is firmly shut and Finstock appears to be napping in his chair, feet on his paper-laden desk.

Derek checks his phone. It’s a text from Laura stating that Sheriff Stilinski wants to talk to him after work today. Derek closes the text without responding. As much as he’s glad his sister got the ball rolling on pressing charges against Kate Argent, he kind of wishes that it didn’t involve him. Or the father of the man he accidentally fell in love with.

“Good news?” Greenberg asks, but before Derek can answer him, his phone chirps again.

This time it’s an unknown number.

Derek opens the text, expecting it to be Sheriff Stilinski. Instead, the text reads: _This is Stiles._

Derek drops his phone. Two months. He’s waited two months for this day. Greenberg shoots him a concerned look, and Derek offers him a weak smile. He grabs his phone again and sends off a quick message: _This is Derek._

Stiles responds quickly: _Oh good. Thought your sister gave me the wrong number for a sec. Shouldn’t have worried. Any idea what “Tell the Pope” means?_

_No._ Derek blushes, of course Laura would say that! He hates her sometimes.

_So, since I remember you, go out with me? I love Mexican food! Especially enchiladas._

Derek sets his phone down, stands up, and walks to the water cooler where he draws a tepid cup of mineral-flavored water just to help settle his heartbeat. When he gets back to his desk, Greenberg flashes him two thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” Derek mutters. _There is a Mexican restaurant across the road from my workplace. Want to meet up for lunch?_

_Sure!! :-D_

Derek is about to send his own smiley face back when the bell above their front door dings loudly.

Derek and Greenberg both roll from their desks to the narrow corridor leading to the receptionist’s desk where they can watch any and all people who enter their realty office.

Derek rolls back to his desk when he realizes that it’s Stiles standing there, surveying the office. Greenberg looks from Stiles to Derek and then waves at Stiles to come back to their desks.

“Dude,” Stiles says, grinning as he rounds the corner, “you work for my old lacrosse coach?” He groans, but it sounds teasing instead of genuinely upset. “Oh, man, that’s just the worst. Did he ever explain why he called his real estate business ‘Finstock Reality’?”

“He said his grandmother named it,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles laughs, slapping at his thigh. “No, no,” he says, wiping away tears. “Just, no. His grandmother has been dead for at least twenty years. He had a typo and by the time he realized it, it was too late to change it.”

“Bilinski!” Finstock bellows. He points at Stiles and mimes throwing him out. “Get away from my star salesman! Don’t you dare poach him for your nefarious schemes.”

“I’m sure my dad would like to know about these ‘nefarious schemes,’” Stiles says, laughing again.

Finstock mutters darkly but lets it drop, heading back into his office where he starts angrily feeding his exotic fish in his giant aquarium.

Greenburg stares down at his handmade Employee of the Month certificate. “I thought I was the star salesman,” he says mournfully.

“Anyway,” Stiles interrupts, “much as this has been fun, I really only stopped by because it’s noon and I’m hungry and _someone_ promised me enchiladas.”

Derek stashes his phone in his pocket and digs his wallet out from his jacket. It’s a nice day, and Stiles certainly won’t sap the warmth from him.

Finstock pops back out of his office to shake his fish flakes menacingly at them. “No,” he says. “Sit.”

“Sorry, boss,” Derek says, tapping his watch. “Lunch break.” He and Stiles head for the door.

“You better come back in an hour, Hale, you hear me?” Finstock yells at their backs. Derek ignores him, slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “One hour! Sixty minutes! Don’t be late! Are you even listening to me? Stop moping, Greenburg. You’re my only other salesman. Of course you’re a star.”

~ Fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Kate Argent molests (rapes) Derek by jerking him off. Stiles saves him. Stiles is in a coma after falling off the roof of the house he was renovating. Laura gets a bloody nose because Derek accidentally hits her.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/).


End file.
